


it's still not quite the way it was

by sicklikewinter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicklikewinter/pseuds/sicklikewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you won the game, but you know you haven't won it completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's still not quite the way it was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trueprinci](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trueprinci/gifts).



> for skiv b/c i could  
> im not too sure if i like this though so

You sleep more than you've ever slept, not since the Game (recovery, sleeping and eating was all you  _did_  and you got so  _sick_  of it), and you wonder if there's something wrong. The warmth of your bed doesn't care, it lulls you back inside its covers—thick and soft and warm warm warm—and you sleep for another two hours. 

(you dont dream the first hour

the second hour you dream of cancer)

When you wake up, blue eyes wide and fearful, you sit up in bed and  _cry_. You remember the dreams you have, and you write them down in sprawling curly-q handwriting that smears at the speed you write it down with. There's always the remnants of previous dreams curled up in current dreams; and you decipher them as best as you can. 

(you remember grey, and unruly hair that was  _so soft_  a voice that grated but soothed and raged all at once)

The bed is warm as you scribble in your journal, biting you lip hard as you recall the dream wisps. It aches to remember, the feelings warped inside your dream is something you dread when you sleep; but there's something that makes you  _desperate to remember_. Desperate to  **feel**. Once you're finished, you set aside the journal and debate the pros and cons of leaving the bed. 

(its half past 9 and you know you slept the entire day away

you dont

actually

_care_ )

Your phone vibrates once, twice, and goes silent. You're still staring at your lap. A siren wails outside your apartment window and you wonder how much force it would take to get the breeze to hold you up, if you were to leap right fucking  ** _now_**. Your phone starts up once again, and you pick it up; 'Dave' blaring angrily brightly at you but you don't care you fling your phone against the plush chair that sits in the corner of your room, near the window where you look out sometimes.

(you want to go back and dream of that cancer that floods your bones

you miss the unruly hair and the odd little horns

you miss it)

The bed beckons you, and you heed it. You bury yourself into the warmth and darkness of your sheets and blankets, and you curl up into a ball. There's something familiar about the position (you remember the cancer growing warm beneath your hands as you curl close; 'i love you karkat' 'you mean you're flushed for me idiot' 'love flushed for you karkat!!') and you want to cry.

Your name is John Egbert, and even though you won the Game—

_you've lost your heart._


End file.
